《道德真經取善集》Vol. 12

This scripture examines the root causes of people's suffering and the path to good governance.

The reason people starve is because their rulers impose excessive taxation. As noted by Song dynasty emperors in their commentaries, heavy taxes lead to abandoned farmlands and insufficient food supplies. Lü Jifu (a Song scholar) poses the question: How can a single farmer who could normally feed several mouths end up starving? Is it not precisely because those above extract too much in taxes? Wang Yuanze (another Song scholar) adds that while establishing government offices and rituals was originally meant to enrich the people, excessive expenditures and burdensome taxation instead create hunger. History records how King You of Zhou and rulers of Wei were satirized in poetry for their oppressive taxation.

The difficulty in governing people stems from rulers being too "active" (intervening excessively). Imperial commentaries observe that complicated decrees breed cunning and hypocrisy, causing people to lose their simple, honest nature. Liu Jinxi (a Tang dynasty Daoist) points out that activism leads to complex governance, while wuwei (non-action) keeps matters simple—what's simple is easy to follow, what's complex becomes hard to manage. Lü Jifu again questions: When people weave their own clothes and farm their own food, are they not naturally easy to govern? Doesn't the difficulty arise precisely from excessive interference from above? Wang Yuanze argues that overzealous scrutiny and unnecessary disruptions corrupt social customs and multiply deceit. The ancient sage-kings like Emperor Shun and King Wu of Zhou, who governed through wuwei and effortless rule, serve as models.

People's reckless disregard for life comes from excessive pursuit of material comforts. The compilers note that heavy taxes and burdensome decrees deprive people of their livelihoods, forcing them to take dangerous risks that break laws. Lü Jifu observes that if people could peacefully eat, dress, dwell, and live, why would they court death? Sima Guang (Duke Wen) concludes that while pursuing profit aims to sustain life, people often lose their lives precisely because of this pursuit.

Through the commentaries of these three scholars, the text reveals how the three great social problems—"the people's hunger," "the people being hard to govern," and "the people courting death"—all stem from rulers' excessive activism. It advocates following the ancient sage-kings' way of governing through wuwei.

This scripture elucidates the dialectical relationship between life and the principles of softness versus rigidity from two perspectives.

The first section examines the contrast between "valuing life" and "despising life." Those who excessively pursue material comforts and covet worldly gains often take reckless risks and disregard death. Those who truly understand life's essence do not forcibly seek what lies beyond life's natural boundaries ("not pursuing what life cannot inherently achieve"). By relinquishing worldly affairs, one's spirit remains undiminished; by transcending attachments to life and death, the physical form maintains its integrity. This harmony of body and mind, united with nature, represents a more profound wisdom than mere longevity-seeking. If rulers governed with this attitude—lightening taxes and simplifying punishments—the people could live in peace, achieving the highest ideal of imperial governance.

The second section illustrates how softness overcomes rigidity through natural phenomena. Living bodies remain supple, while corpses grow stiff; plants bend when thriving but become brittle when withered. Master Heshang's commentary notes this occurs due to the presence or dissipation of harmonious Qi (vital energy) within life. Yan Zun further explains: when Yang energy abounds, trees can bend and grasses knot; when it dissipates, even water freezes into brittleness. Thus rigidity belongs to the category of death, while softness embodies the way of survival. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang added that maintaining softness preserves life, whereas forcefulness invites destruction. Lü Jifu observed that although the Dao is formless, the transformations between life and death in tangible things reveal the principle—softness sustains existence, while rigidity leads to demise.

Laozi expounds a profound truth in the Daode Jing: excessive strength often leads to failure. Just as in warfare, assuming military superiority guarantees victory frequently produces the opposite outcome. History abounds with examples—the Xia and Shang dynasties perished despite their million-strong armies; Qin Shihuang unified the realm only for his empire to collapse in the second generation; Xiang Yu's brief hegemony ended in swift defeat; Wang Mang's usurpation met rapid downfall; Fu Jian of Former Qin suffered humiliating defeat at the Fei River; and Emperor Yang of Sui met his demise in the Jiangdu palace coup. These rulers and generals commanded armies numbering hundreds of thousands, yet perished through arrogant reliance on military might.

Using trees as metaphor, Laozi observes: overly tall trees invite the axe. People nurture saplings carefully, yet when trees grow thick enough to embrace, they compete to fell them. This illustrates the principle that "when wood becomes strong, it invites communal chopping." Observing natural patterns reveals this wisdom—the light and ethereal air rises while heavy earth settles below; in trees, supple branches reach upward while rigid trunks remain beneath. Thus the highest wisdom in human affairs lies in understanding that softness belongs above and strength below.

Chapter 77 employs the bowmaker's art to illustrate celestial patterns: master craftsmen neither over-tighten nor leave bowstrings slack. When excessive, they loosen; when insufficient, they tighten—removing surplus and supplementing deficiency to achieve perfect balance. Such is the Dao of Heaven—lowering what's excessive, elevating what's deficient, reducing surplus and completing lack. Like seasonal cycles where cold follows heat, all maintains perfect equilibrium. As Yan Zun (Han dynasty Daoist scholar) explains, this balance isn't forced but follows natural law, like the bowmaker's principle: neither excess nor deficiency, but perfect harmony in all things.

This scripture expounds on the balance between cosmic operations and human conduct, using the metaphor of archery: When the bowstring is too high, lower it slightly; when too low, raise it a bit. Only by adjusting to the centered, harmonious position can the arrow fly true.

Zhang Junxiang explains that just as one adjusts the bowstring, one must also maintain the Middle Way in life. Those in high positions risk provoking envy and should practice moderation, while those in lowly positions should strive for self-improvement. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang adds that this mirrors the natural rhythm of heaven—the moon wanes after reaching fullness and waxes again after waning, maintaining dynamic equilibrium.

The law of heaven and earth (Tian Dao) reduces excess and replenishes deficiency, much like water flowing downward to fill depressions. Yet human conduct (Ren Dao) often does the opposite: the poor grow poorer while the rich grow richer; the weak weaken further while the strong grow stronger. Only those who embody the Dao can emulate heaven and earth, sharing their surplus to supplement what is lacking.

Heshang Gong observes that worldly people exploit the weak and flatter the powerful, whereas enlightened rulers (rulers who follow the Dao) model themselves after heaven’s way. Wang Yuanze states that those truly aligned with the Dao naturally act in harmony with cosmic principles.

Thus, sages perform virtuous deeds without boasting and achieve merit without claiming credit, never seeking to display their wisdom. As Master Kumarajiva said: Those who truly understand do not even think to promote themselves. Those who dwell on their achievements and flaunt their talents invite loss instead.

The core message of this chapter is: The Dao values equilibrium above all, maintaining balance by moderating highs and lows, surpluses and deficits. Sages emulate this principle—neither clinging to merit nor flaunting ability—and thus reap lasting benefits. Those who fail to grasp this truth will struggle to fathom its profound wisdom.

Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming the hard and unyielding. This is its irreplaceable nature. Lü Jifu explains that among all things in creation, only water can adapt to the curves and angles, squares and circles of objects—hence nothing is softer than water. Yet water can move massive objects, turn heavy stones, penetrate mountain valleys, and carry all things between heaven and earth—capabilities unsurpassed by any other substance. The reason water possesses such power lies in its ability to undergo countless transformations while always retaining its essential nature, a characteristic that cannot be substituted.

Water's capacity to transform endlessly according to external circumstances without losing its essence stems precisely from its soft nature. If humans can emulate this quality, even when facing ever-changing situations, their inner constancy will remain unshaken, thus enabling them to master external things without suffering harm. Therefore, we say the soft overcomes the hard—a principle known throughout the world yet rarely practiced.

Heshanggong illustrates this with examples: the soft tongue outlasts the hard teeth (teeth fall out while the tongue endures); water extinguishes fire, and yin softness resolves yang hardness. Only by understanding the Dao of softness can one endure, whereas stubborn rigidity leads to breakage. People often feel ashamed of humility, preferring instead to flaunt their strength.

Thus the sage declares (referring to the subsequent passage): "Only those who can bear a nation's disgrace are worthy to be its lords; only those who can shoulder a nation's calamities may become kings under heaven." Wang Yuanze observes that sages maintain softness by emulating water's virtue (De). "Bearing the nation's filth" demonstrates the capacity to contain impurity and willingly dwell in lowliness—taking all blame upon oneself, thereby becoming ruler of a state. Calling oneself "orphaned," "solitary," or "unworthy" (ancient royal humility titles) exemplifies bearing the nation's misfortunes, thus attracting the allegiance of all under heaven.

Seemingly paradoxical statements contain profound truth. Wang Yuanze explains that these words appear contrary to common sense yet align perfectly with the supreme Dao (Dao). Su Zhe adds: "Truthful words accord with heavenly principles but contradict worldly understanding, because people consider enduring disgrace shameful and bearing calamities disastrous."

This chapter primarily expounds the principle of softness overcoming hardness, first using water's nature as metaphor, then supporting it with the sage's words.

Chapter 79 ("Reconciling Great Resentment") states: "When reconciling deep resentment, some bitterness inevitably remains—how can this be called perfect resolution?" Lü Jifu clarifies that true reconciliation resembles a vengeful person not breaking their enemy's sword, nor resenting an accidentally fallen roof tile despite harboring anger—this constitutes the foundation of universal peace. Without such resolution, resentment persists eternally.

This passage explains the Daoist principle of how rulers should resolve resentment. When people's desires arise, reconciling these conflicts becomes nearly impossible. Even if major grievances are settled, lingering resentment always remains—how can this be considered true harmony?

When rulers fail to uphold the principle of Wuwei (non-action), the foundational Daoist governance philosophy, and instead rely on coercive measures, the people become consumed by desires and endless strife. At this point, even if harsh laws are enforced—demanding "a life for a life" or punishments for injuries—using violence to suppress violence only breeds more cunning behavior, deepening resentment.

The ancient sages took an entirely different approach. They adopted the method of "holding the left tally" (in ancient contracts, the left half symbolized giving): just as our ancestors used knotted ropes or notched wood as simple contractual records, they avoided cumbersome legal codes. The sages had no fixed preconceptions, aligning their hearts completely with the people's will. Like the party holding the left tally, they gave without demanding, fostering natural harmony between ruler and ruled, where resentment dissolved of its own accord.

Commentators offer insightful explanations: Heshanggong notes this reflects the ancient practice of establishing trust through mutual contracts; Lu Xisheng observes that sages treated the people's hearts as their own; Li Rong describes how rulers held the left tally while subjects held the right, maintaining order through integrity rather than punishment; Wang Bi emphasizes that the left tally represents the root of preventing resentment.

Lü Jifu's commentary provides the most vivid analogy: Just as in ancient rituals of offering oxen or horses, those holding the right tally collected dues while left-tally holders simply gave. The sages acted this way—contributing without claiming merit, always sharing their surplus with the world. Even when adjudicating capital cases, they delegated execution to officials, never personally pronouncing sentences. This embodies the wisdom of holding the left tally: by eternally being the giver rather than the taker, resentment finds no foothold. Why then pursue superficial reconciliation through force?

Wang Yuanze explains: In ancient times, contracts were divided into left and right tallies. The left tally was held by the receiving party, while the right tally was kept by the demanding party. The holder of the left tally occupies a passive, receptive position, whereas the holder of the right tally maintains the initiative. The sage (referring to one of high moral virtue) is like the holder of the left tally—not actively pursuing external things, yet all things naturally respond to him. This is the state described in the Book of Changes as "resonating and thereby penetrating all affairs under heaven."

Thus, the sage often bears the responsibilities of the world without harboring intentions to blame others, and consequently never incurs resentment. Zhuangzi's saying "attribute merit to others, attribute faults to oneself" and Tang of Shang's declaration "if the people of the world err, the responsibility lies solely with me" both express this principle. Ancient records note that those presenting oxen or horses would hold the right tally, indicating that the left tally was kept by the recipient. The Records of the Grand Historian also mentions "holding the right tally to demand fulfillment of obligations."

The way a virtuous person manages contracts is this: not actively pursuing external things, but instead allowing things to naturally align. Immortal Yan (a Daoist transcendent) calls this "turning inward to examine oneself." A virtuous ruler clearly understands contractual trust and never allows resentment to arise before blaming others.

The virtue-less act contrarily. Heshang Gong (a Daoist thinker) states that rulers without virtue violate contractual trust, obsessively seeking out others' faults. Immortal Yan describes this as "harshly blaming others." Prince Shu points out that excessive pursuit of perfect outcomes inevitably leads to blaming others, thereby inviting resentment—this is the mark of lacking virtue.

The Dao of heaven shows no partiality toward the myriad things, yet it consistently favors the virtuous. The Imperial Commentary explains: The Dao of heaven only bestows upon the virtuous—how could it be partial? Lü Jifu remarks: Though the Dao of heaven is impartial, it favors the virtuous, which aligns with the principle of holding the left tally without blaming others. Wang Yuanze adds: Only the Dao of heaven is truly selfless—the virtuous receive its favor, demonstrating that heaven's Dao and the sage's Dao are interconnected.

This chapter primarily illustrates: Harboring intentions to reconcile grievances is inferior to holding the left tally without blaming others. Reconciliation inevitably leaves residual resentment, whereas managing contracts in this manner avoids blaming others altogether. The Dao of heaven shows no partiality yet favors the virtuous—this too reflects the principle of holding the left tally without blame.

In Chapter 80's "small state with few people," Heshang Gong explains: Even when governing a large kingdom, the sage treats it as a small state—this demonstrates the virtue of frugality.

This passage describes Laozi's ideal vision of a small state with few people. Zang Xuanjing explains that a small state refers to limited territory, while few people means a sparse population. Wang Yuanze further elaborates: When the state is small and population sparse, folk customs remain pure and simple; conversely, large states with dense populations breed conflicts of interest and foster cunning and hypocrisy. The difference in simplicity between urban and rural dwellers proves this principle.

In small states, governance remains simple with fewer population concentrations, allowing folk customs to naturally retain their purity. This enables a return to the golden age of governance. Even if various tools exist (the "shiqi" being tools shared by ten people, "boqi" by a hundred), under the quiet and non-action (Wuwei) governance, people remain content in their occupations without needing large-scale labor, rendering these tools unnecessary.

If rulers can benefit the people and eliminate harms, they will cherish life and avoid reckless death; with uncomplicated decrees, people can live and work in peace without abandoning their homes. Wang Yuanze observes: When people live happily, they value staying in their homeland—this contrasts sharply with those who recklessly risk death or become displaced due to hardship.

Even if boats and carts exist (zhou being wooden boats, yu being wheeled vehicles), there would be no need to ride them; though armor and weapons exist (jia being armor, bing being weapons), there would be no occasion to display them. Emperor Huizong of Song comments: Without dangerous terrain to cross, boats and carts become unnecessary; without threats of war, weapons need not be displayed. Chen Jingyuan adds: Boats serve to cross waters, carts to traverse land—both are tools for distant travel. In an era of non-action governance, with no treacherous mountain paths or unbridged marshes, such transportation becomes obsolete. Zhang Junxiang concludes: Weapons exist to quell rebellion, military force to pacify chaos. When rulers govern with virtue (De), people naturally submit—what need remains for deploying armies?

This scripture uses metaphors and various commentaries to expound the Daoist political ideal of revering natural simplicity while opposing artificial contrivance.

The Hinayana (a foundational Buddhist practice) is employed as a metaphor for simple cultivation methods, while armor and weapons symbolize petty cleverness. Practitioners should abide in their true nature and relinquish these external tools. Wang Yuanze explains that if the people can remain content with their inherent nature and duties, there will be no calamities of distant campaigns and warfare. Cao Daochong adds that if great states do not encroach upon small ones, each keeping to its proper role, then armor and weapons will naturally become unnecessary.

Regarding the phrase "make the people return to knotted cords for recording," Wang Yuanze argues that when affairs are simple and customs are pure, even written contracts become unnecessary. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang notes that carriages and boats were originally meant to facilitate travel, and weapons were designed for warfare, but if people lack greed, these tools lose their purpose, allowing society to revert to the pristine state of recording events with knotted cords. The commentary further explains that ancient people used knotted cords for records, but when sages later invented writing, it instead led to increasing artifice. The goal now is to rid people of desires and return them to the simplicity of ancient customs.

Concerning the state of life where "they relish their food and take pleasure in their clothing," the imperial commentary states that the people eat from their own farming and clothe themselves from their own weaving, content in their nourishment and play, living peacefully and happily. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang observes that because they do not crave delicacies, their food tastes sweet; because they do not pursue extravagant garments, their clothes feel fine; because they do not adorn their dwellings, their homes are peaceful; and because they maintain simplicity, their customs are joyful.

Finally, the ideal society is depicted: neighboring states are within sight of each other, the sounds of chickens and dogs are heard across borders, yet the people grow old and die without ever interacting. Wang Yuanze considers this the governance of fulfilling one's nature, where all people realize their inherent potential. He compares this to the Analects and Mencius, both of which conclude with the achievements of sage-kings, whereas Laozi, living in an age of chaos, focuses solely on clarifying the original intent of Dao and De (Virtue), advocating a return to simplicity. If this teaching is put into practice, it will achieve the effect of transforming the people and perfecting customs. Lü Jifu points out that from the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) onward to the decline of the Zhou, the institutions of rites and music had already become deeply flawed.

Laozi observed that people had lost the original state of life's authenticity, and thus used simple principles to guide them back to the pure governance of ancient times. While other classics only discuss the eras of Yao, Shun, and the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou), Laozi traces back even further to antiquity. Why is this?

Because the Great Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) and worldly affairs (social conditions) have long diverged, and only by returning to the Dao can people rediscover life's true essence. To speak of the Dao without connecting it to reality would make it impossible to truly grasp its meaning. This is why Laozi advocates a return to the primordial Dao.

Someone might ask: "We are now far removed from antiquity—can we fully restore it?" The answer is: Though complete restoration may not be possible, just as ritual evolved to harmonize the ways of the Three Sage Kings (Xia, Shang, Zhou), and music reached its peak by encompassing the six dynasties (from the Yellow Emperor to the Zhou), we still place clear water and simple broth beside lavish feasts and include the pure tones of the chime stone amidst grand orchestration—all to remind people of the original meaning of ritual and music.

At that time, Confucius was reviving the governance principles of King Wen, King Wu, and the Duke of Zhou, while Laozi's discourse on the relationship between the Dao and the world served the same essential purpose. It is like the fourth lunar month, when the fire energy (of summer) is at its peak, yet the metal energy (of autumn) has already begun to stir within—such is the cyclical succession of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water).

Thus, we hear that in the governance of antiquity, people possessed tools but did not use them, had boats and carts but did not ride them, and owned weapons but did not display them—because large-scale mobilization of labor and resources was only done out of necessity. It is said that the people knotted ropes to keep records, neighboring states were so close they could see each other, and the sounds of roosters and dogs could be heard clearly—yet they lived and died without ever interacting. This shows that later elaborate policies and border disputes arose only out of necessity.

The true way of governance lies in this: What is done out of necessity exists here, but the source we seek to return to lies there. How, then, could we impose complex policies to harshly constrain the people? If this principle were followed, the world would naturally find peace. If the sages remained silent—like removing the clear water or discarding the pure tones—who would understand that rituals should be simple, music should be restrained, and the profound meaning of returning to the source? The words of the sages—could they be mere trivial supplements?

This passage describes the ancient ideal of small states with sparse populations. Neighboring villages could hear each other's chickens and dogs, yet the people lived contentedly without interfering with one another, achieving a state of self-sufficient harmony. This simple and unadorned mode of governance allowed a return to the natural state of primordial antiquity.

Regarding the statement that "truthful words are not beautiful": Genuine speech often lacks ornamentation. Wang Anshi explained that sincerity is human nature—words close to this nature, though plain and unadorned, represent the most natural expression in the world. When governance reaches the point where people eat heartily, dress warmly, dwell securely, delight in their customs, and live out their lives without interaction yet each finds their proper place, it achieves the pinnacle of rulership, ultimately returning to the realm of the Dao (the Way).

Wang Pang (Wang Yuanze) further elaborated: Speech that accords with the Dao (the Way) is bland and flavorless—how could it be ornate? Sweet words are as cloying as honey, flowery phrases as dazzling as blossoms, and clever rhetoric as melodious as music, but truthful speech simply states principles directly. Though flavorless, it never departs from the Dao; though unadorned, it never feigns; though unrhythmic, it never loses authenticity—hence it does not pursue superficial beauty.

Ornate and pleasing words are often untrustworthy. Heshang Gong noted that excessively embellished beautiful speech brims with falsehood; Wang Anshi observed that pursuing verbal ornamentation distances one from true nature. Wang Pang added that discussing matters apart from the Dao, though it may please shallow minds, strays from genuine truth.

Those who truly act virtuously do not rely on clever debate. Emperor Xuanzong of Tang commented in his annotation that indulging in empty talk and argumentation does not constitute real goodness. Wang Pang quoted Confucius—"In language, it is simply required that it convey the meaning"—to illustrate that words need only clarify principles, without unnecessary elaboration.

Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) do not seek breadth of knowledge. Those who grasp subtle principles can instead apprehend the fundamental essence. Sima Chengzhen stated in Compendium of Subtleties that those who comprehend the Dao understand basic principles sufficiently—why pursue breadth? As Zhuangzi says, breadth is inferior to conciseness.

Do not cling to arguments or flaunt cleverness. Heshang Gong explains that while those with extensive knowledge may have broad experience, they often fail to grasp fundamental truth. Su Zhe (Su Ziyou) points out that those who truly master the Dao can comprehend all things through one essential principle, without needing to display erudition—those constantly pursuing more knowledge may not truly understand the Dao.

The sage does not hoard or accumulate for personal gain. Wang Bi annotates that sages have no selfish intentions but simply follow the natural order, bestowing virtue upon others. Wang Pang (Wang Yuanze) further clarifies that sages govern the world by aligning with the natural flow—this neither harms the Dao nor prevents their work from flourishing. Transmitting the Dao is like heaven and earth nurturing all things: sages never withhold, yet all things grow ever more abundant. Precisely because they do not accumulate, they can fully meet the needs of all beings.

Cao Daochong poetically describes: "Generous virtue knows no exhaustion, unhoarded responses never end. Daily wonders arise inexhaustibly; great giving yields greater returns. Hoarders always feel lacking, while the selfless find abundance." The sage maintains emptiness—this very void allows endless adaptability, so the more they give, the richer they become.

The Way of Heaven (natural law) benefits all without harm. Emperor Huizong of Song (Imperial Commentary) explains: "Like heaven (Qian) eternally nourishing the world with goodness yet never boasting—all things truly benefit yet remain unharmed." Lu Yu observes that worldly benefits often favor one at another's expense, whereas heavenly law is impartial, bringing only benefit without harm. Gu Huan adds: "The virtuous attain the Dao to accomplish good works; the wicked attain the Dao and are transformed—both ultimately return to the great Dao. This is 'benefiting without harm.'" Consider the seasons: spring and summer nurture growth, autumn and winter bring harvest—all benefit without inflicting harm.

The sage's principle is to act without contention. Lü Huiqing (Lü Jifu) analyzes Laozi's thought: "Inwardly observing the heart-mind, outwardly examining all things, gazing at celestial patterns and earthly forms—all accord with the Dao. Though lesser scholars may laugh and ordinary folk find it unimpressive, the sage's words appear simple yet contain profound meaning. They do not use speech to please others; their wisdom reaches the realm of 'non-knowing' (transcending conventional understanding)."

This scripture elucidates the essential relationship between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) in Laozi's philosophy, along with the proper attitude for spiritual practitioners.

It first emphasizes that true wisdom does not lie in extensive knowledge, as clinging to ornate rhetoric and erudition leads one astray from the Great Dao. The Dao Laozi speaks of suggests that the more one accumulates, the more inadequate one becomes—even the wisdom of sages must ultimately be relinquished. Only by attaining the state of "wu" (non-being) can one truly fulfill the needs of all things; the more selfless one becomes, the more one possesses. Yet ordinary scholars who cannot completely empty their minds will never reach this realm.

All worldly phenomena have dual aspects of benefit and harm. Only the Heavenly Dao neither pursues profit nor suffers loss, thereby benefiting all effortlessly. When beings act with intention, they generate selfish desires, which inevitably lead to contention. However, the sage's way appears active yet is fundamentally wuwei (non-action). Through non-action comes selflessness, and through selflessness comes non-contention—this embodies the Heavenly Dao.

The sage's principles emulate the Heavenly Dao. Though appearing to act, their foundation lies in non-action; they accomplish all things without competing with them, thus preserving their sacred merit. This chapter summarizes the scripture's core message: The Dao itself is flavorless and unadorned, hence it rejects ornamentation. Discourse about the Dao requires no eloquence, and its essential principles are simple, rejecting complexity. Sages embody the Dao and thus accumulate nothing; by using "non-being" to fulfill all needs, they possess everything. Heaven follows the Dao by benefiting without harming; sages follow Heaven by acting without contending. To truly comprehend the teachings of Dao and De, the supreme principle is to benefit all beings without contention.

Finally, it discusses the unity between Dao and De: Before all things take form, Dao and De exist as an undifferentiated whole. After formation, they manifest together. What all beings follow is the Dao; how the Dao manifests in individuals is De. Viewed separately, they are distinct concepts; seen essentially, they are inseparable. Dao transforms into De without separation, and De originates from Dao without division. The Zhuangzi states: In the primordial state, there was "the One" without form—the root from which all beings arise is De. From the formless perspective of "the One," we speak of Dao; from the generative perspective of all beings, we speak of De. De is governed by Dao's unifying principle, for Dao and De are ultimately one in essence.

The division of the Daode Jing into separate sections has long been a subject of debate. It must be clarified that splitting the text into a "Dao Jing" (Scripture of the Way) and a "De Jing" (Scripture of Virtue) is fundamentally misguided. Later scholars simply labeled the first section as "Dao Jing" because it begins with the phrase "The Dao that can be spoken of," while the second section was called "De Jing" due to its opening line, "Superior De does not claim to be De." This artificial division has led to an unnecessary separation between Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power).

In reality, while the first section primarily discusses Dao, it also includes statements like "The appearance of great De follows solely from Dao," demonstrating their inseparability. Similarly, the second section, though focused on De, contains passages such as "Dao gives them life, and De nurtures them," proving that De cannot exist apart from Dao. A careful reading of the text reveals that Dao and De are interdependent and indivisible.

To use an analogy: Dao without De would lack manifestation, while De without Dao would lose its foundation. Dao itself is formless and operates through wuwei (non-action), existing at the primordial stage of creation. De, on the other hand, is manifest and active, expressed in the development of all things. Though Dao precedes De in sequence, they are ultimately one, just as the Xisheng Jing states, "Dao and De unite as one, merging with the Dao." Similarly, the Nanhua Jing (i.e., the Zhuangzi) observes, "Without Dao, physical form cannot arise; without De, life cannot be revealed."

Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian notes that Laozi composed his work in two sections, both elucidating the meaning of Dao and De. Later scholars, however, mistakenly divided them based solely on the opening lines. Dao and De are two aspects of a single unity and should not be forcibly separated. Therefore, the most appropriate title for this classic remains Daode Zhenjing (The True Scripture of Dao and De), emphasizing their inherent unity.